The kids and I live in a spacious, three bedroom house that I feel bad for. Really, I feel bad for any house I live in because deep down inside, despite my best intentions, I want to destroy them all.
I have two sisters who can make any space beautiful. I've seen one of them move into a moldy, shag carpeted studio apartment, and after one weekend of placing the right pillow here and the right bleach-soaked rag there she made it a clean, welcoming little abode that smelled like a cross between vanilla cupcake and functionality. Both of my sisters are the type of cleaners that would look great in a commercial about vacuum cleaners or chemical disinfectants. They could walk through a house, and counter tops and bath tubs would glow clean at their touch. At my touch they would turn into bowls of three day old macaroni and cheese.
I don't know how I got the messy gene where when I see a clean space I feel itchy all over. I went to an art opening a couple of weeks ago, and when my friend Sean and I stepped into the bright, sterile studio I wanted to walk right back out. The white floor, white walls, and the shiny silver chairs were blindingly bright. The art on display, kimonos made out of glass beads, hung from the ceiling on wires that you couldn't see. They were beautiful shirts with no one inside them, like garment ghosts floating in stasis with their arms spread to offer a hug they couldn't give. While Sean was attracted to their beauty, I felt like I couldn't breathe.
This is how I feel whenever I go into someone's house where everything is just a little too nice and in its place. My first thought is "Touch nothing" and my second thought is, "Ok, what's wrong with these people?" Seriously, that's what I think.
Sean argues that a person's outside space reflects their inside space, so if their house is a wreck then they're a wreck inside. If they have a lovely, well-kept home then they've got it together in their head. This is not the impression I get. When I walk into a messy house I feel like I have a handle on what's going on with a person. "An old pair of pants and a bowl of cereal are top of the television. AWESOME. This woman has nothing to hide about how busy, poor, and disorganized she is." How do I know she's poor? Because she can't afford a new, flat television. You can only stack cereal bowls on the old ones. I know this...'cause.
So conversely, when I walk into a house where all of the nice pants are in their polished dressers and the organic cereal is in the box where it belongs and the organic almond milk with fish oil supplements is in its proper container in the refrigerator which is in a newly redone kitchen that's fully up to date with a year warranty in case something breaks and has a smart, skinny television on the marble top counter, next to a sign that says, "Live, Laugh, Love," then I begin to wonder where they keep the horse porn. Because clearly, these people have something to hide.
Don't worry, I'm fully aware of how messed up this makes me, but I'm also aware that I'm frequently right. Though I'm a terrible house keeper, I'm a good listener and you'd be amazed how many seemingly together people open up after they have a few glasses of wine and begin to tell me how, after 18 years of being a lawyer, they've always wanted to be a drag queen and they make up for this loss in their lives by changing from a business suit to a sparkly dress at the end of the day and going to pick up other men while their wife waits at home in their immaculate house. Live, laugh, love.
But does this mean that just because some clean people live a double life, I should let my own place accumulate pants and bowls of cereal until the state has to come in and wrap yellow tape around my house? No. It just feels genetically impossible for me to properly nest anywhere.
Because for me the problem isn't just cleaning. It's deciding where things go. You can't necessarily keep everything in its place when nothing has a place. I have lived in this house for seven months now and I'm still trying to decide where to keep the ironing board. Right now it's by the laundry because it seems like that's where it should live, but it's sandwiched precariously between the table with all of the clothes on it and the dryer and every once and a while it falls over because it's standing on clothes that have fallen from the table onto the floor, so its on a bumpy surface, and while my clean sisters would have picked up those clothes by now because they have the right genes, I just keep standing the ironing board on top of the pile because my genetics tells me that I don't have time to deal with floor clothes. In fact, just imagine that every piece of furniture I own is standing on top of a pile of laundry and you'll have a good idea of what the inside of my house looks like.
The worst part is, I'm passing this on to my children. The other day I picked up Claire from school and instead of getting in, she leaned into my window and asked if we could give her friend Francois a ride.
"Uh," I said. "The car's not exactly presentable."
She peaked into the back, then looked at me. "It's not that bad. I'll just shove the spoons and the skirt under your seat."
And the sad thing was, she was right. For my car, it wasn't that bad. There were only a couple of spoons and Emma's uniform skirt in the way. No comic books, half-eaten food, bills, or coffee makers back there. Just three items that are now under my seat. Because I still haven't taken them inside.
Despite all of this, I am little by little making my house a home. Because for the first time, I live in a house that I love. It's old and has tons of character, and as my youngest sister who used to clean houses for a living once said, you can never fully clean an old New Orleans house. The stains never completely come out. I love old stains and scars on a house, dents where a kid might have rammed his tricycle into the wall in 1922, graffiti from a teenage girl in 1934. Since I love that type of stuff, I do not feel compelled to destroy this house. I won't put holes in the walls, or peel down strips of paint until the walls look like their shedding or crying.
But getting to the point where I can invite someone in to sit without having to move a blanket, a toaster and a hamster out of the way first is another story. That, I'm still working on. I mean, I guess if I wanted to I could blame it on the kids but I know that the problem is me. My whole adult life, whenever I've moved into a new place I've always felt like a wild animal forced to make a nest in a doll house. Maybe that's why there's newspaper, straw and twine all over the floor. It's like bedding at the bottom of a cage.
No Gen, you say, you may not make a nest out of twigs, leaves and saliva. You're a HUMAN. You make a nest out of particle board furniture and candles. And that weird wrought-iron thing you find at Pier One that isn't really art, but it makes for an interesting design on the wall, like a question mark suffering from appendicitis. See, that's all you need, you can have a normal house.
No. No, I don't think I can. I think if I came home and found my house looking like that I'd have no choice but to gnaw on the walls like a beast. So maybe it's best that I put art and concert posters up instead because they feel more like me. With no clothes hanging off of them. That way if Claire ever invites Francois over we won't scurry around the house shoving pets and trash under the couch. I'll lick my paws, and comb out my fur, and then Claire can introduce me.
"Francois, meet my mother. She's part wolverine. Look, there's a portion of the couch she hasn't chewed! We can have a seat, lemme just move these bowls..."
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Monday, September 2, 2013
Five Hamsters Starring in - NOT a Sales Pitch
....And now we have five hamsters.
There! That's the end of the story! That's all the explanation you need, right?....No? You need to know why we have five hamsters living in individual cages? Well, it's because they'd either breed or kill each other if we kept them all in the same cage. Oh, you want to know why I have five hamsters in the first place when we already have a turtle, a dog, a rabbit, and a fish? Ok, here's the time sequence:
1) There was light.
2) There were five hamsters.
That's the Biblical version of what happened. Here's the godless version:
1) Emma's dad gave her two hamsters that were living at his house.
2) The hamsters went on a date.
3) The girl hamster gave birth to 14 babies.
4) Emma's dad began to travel with work and could not care for the animals.
5) Emma looked at me with big, sorrowful eyes and asked if we could take care of the babies until they were old enough to go to the pet store.
6) No local pet store would take them because they didn't have their shots or some other stupid reason.
7) Five babies were given to good homes, six escaped into the yard, and three are now fully grown and have built their own homes. In my house.
8) Their parents are still with us and are not allowed to date. Each other or anyone else.
I'm still asking around to see if anyone would like one or more hamsters, complete with cage, but no one's taken me up on the offer. I don't understand. Sure, they're just a step away from rats and if they escape you will find droppings for days, but they're so fluffy! They're like live pillows with eyeballs.
A hamster is the kind of pet that I wish I could put in a tuxedo. I think it's because they're so fuzzily delightful, they make me want to do humanizing and thus degrading things to them to accentuate their cuteness, like when you see a dog in a sweater. The dog in the sweater thing is so old. How often do you see a hamster in a sweater? Not often or possibly ever but if you did, that hamster would setting cute records that a dog could only dream about.
Have you decided to adopt a hamster yet?
So, as you know, our pet count in my house fluctuates depending on the breed, lifespan, and the timing of a cat's speed vs a passing car. Right now we have:
1) Lily the dog
2) Ginger the rabbit
3) Ishmael Fishmael Herman Melville the Third - a goldfish with impressive credentials
4) Lightening the turtle
5) A hamster
6) A hamster
7) A hamster
8) A hamster
9) A hamster
Actually, we have named the hamsters now that we're sure that they're ours and no one wants them. Are you the type of person who falls for people or things that no one else wants? NO ONE wants them! NOOOOBODY! They're so cold and alone on the fringe of society! They just need a shoulder to crawl on, a hand to nibble, a house other than mine! Well, maybe I'm projecting with that last part. But ok. Their names are:
1) Bolt
2) Twilight
3) Brownie
4) Thor
5) Ulysses
Guess which ones I named? The kids wanted to call Ulysses "Scamp," but when he was a baby he went missing for three days and showed up just as we'd given him up for dead. He went on an epic journey, fought a cyclops, was hailed by sirens, and...did whatever else the myth describes. Only he knows what those things are. Anyway, after that ordeal I decided that he'd earned a grander name than "Scamp." Plus, I hadn't gotten to name one yet.
And if you took him into your home for FREE you could hear all about it. He doesn't speak English, but I believe that he tries to communicate through whisker twitches. I would take the time to learn it, but with the other four hamsters twitching their whiskers all at once it gets loud in there. Kind of like being on a bus. Full of hamsters with moving noses.
I named the other one Thor because he runs around with a little hammer. Does that affect your decision to take him? Well, he doesn't smack things with it. He fixes things around the house. In fact, yes YES all of the hamsters were named for a unique capability. Bolt is fast, so he can take you places on time. Twilight can tell you stories about sparkly vampires. Brownie bakes sweets. Thor is a handy man, and Ulysses is a sailor/adventurer who will fight a cyclops for you.
So now that you've decided to take any and maybe even all of our beautiful, handy hamsters, please write to me at this address:
12345 Hairball Plaza
Cage Shavings, LA 6789101112
But won't the kids miss them you ask? Maybe we should also do a roll call of the other critters in my house, since it's been a while.
1. Claire - human female, 14, listens to music and is chronically bored.
2. Emma - human female, 12, plays with all of the animals that her siblings have little to no interest in, makes art and avoids homework.
3. Christopher - gamer male, 10, plays video games, also avoids homework. His job is to eat and get taller.
So Emma and I might miss them a little, but since the animal to human ratio is beating us I think we could afford to lighten the load.
That address again is:
1000 Whiskers Blvd.
Oh My God Take Them, LA
Well, I can't put my address on the internet! Sigh. Could it be that I really do want to keep the hamsters, now that I've named them and nursed one of them back to health after he returned from an epic journey, gaunt and gasping for corn and sunflower seeds? Well. Maybe. Maybe I'd miss them a little. Besides, I am starting to learn their whisker language. And I did tape broom straws to my face that one time so I could twitch back. And Brownie is a good cook.
So...does anyone need piles of discarded fur? We've got bails of them. It would make a fetching sweater for your dog.
There! That's the end of the story! That's all the explanation you need, right?....No? You need to know why we have five hamsters living in individual cages? Well, it's because they'd either breed or kill each other if we kept them all in the same cage. Oh, you want to know why I have five hamsters in the first place when we already have a turtle, a dog, a rabbit, and a fish? Ok, here's the time sequence:
1) There was light.
2) There were five hamsters.
That's the Biblical version of what happened. Here's the godless version:
1) Emma's dad gave her two hamsters that were living at his house.
2) The hamsters went on a date.
3) The girl hamster gave birth to 14 babies.
4) Emma's dad began to travel with work and could not care for the animals.
5) Emma looked at me with big, sorrowful eyes and asked if we could take care of the babies until they were old enough to go to the pet store.
6) No local pet store would take them because they didn't have their shots or some other stupid reason.
7) Five babies were given to good homes, six escaped into the yard, and three are now fully grown and have built their own homes. In my house.
8) Their parents are still with us and are not allowed to date. Each other or anyone else.
I'm still asking around to see if anyone would like one or more hamsters, complete with cage, but no one's taken me up on the offer. I don't understand. Sure, they're just a step away from rats and if they escape you will find droppings for days, but they're so fluffy! They're like live pillows with eyeballs.
A hamster is the kind of pet that I wish I could put in a tuxedo. I think it's because they're so fuzzily delightful, they make me want to do humanizing and thus degrading things to them to accentuate their cuteness, like when you see a dog in a sweater. The dog in the sweater thing is so old. How often do you see a hamster in a sweater? Not often or possibly ever but if you did, that hamster would setting cute records that a dog could only dream about.
Have you decided to adopt a hamster yet?
So, as you know, our pet count in my house fluctuates depending on the breed, lifespan, and the timing of a cat's speed vs a passing car. Right now we have:
1) Lily the dog
2) Ginger the rabbit
3) Ishmael Fishmael Herman Melville the Third - a goldfish with impressive credentials
4) Lightening the turtle
5) A hamster
6) A hamster
7) A hamster
8) A hamster
9) A hamster
Actually, we have named the hamsters now that we're sure that they're ours and no one wants them. Are you the type of person who falls for people or things that no one else wants? NO ONE wants them! NOOOOBODY! They're so cold and alone on the fringe of society! They just need a shoulder to crawl on, a hand to nibble, a house other than mine! Well, maybe I'm projecting with that last part. But ok. Their names are:
1) Bolt
2) Twilight
3) Brownie
4) Thor
5) Ulysses
Guess which ones I named? The kids wanted to call Ulysses "Scamp," but when he was a baby he went missing for three days and showed up just as we'd given him up for dead. He went on an epic journey, fought a cyclops, was hailed by sirens, and...did whatever else the myth describes. Only he knows what those things are. Anyway, after that ordeal I decided that he'd earned a grander name than "Scamp." Plus, I hadn't gotten to name one yet.
And if you took him into your home for FREE you could hear all about it. He doesn't speak English, but I believe that he tries to communicate through whisker twitches. I would take the time to learn it, but with the other four hamsters twitching their whiskers all at once it gets loud in there. Kind of like being on a bus. Full of hamsters with moving noses.
I named the other one Thor because he runs around with a little hammer. Does that affect your decision to take him? Well, he doesn't smack things with it. He fixes things around the house. In fact, yes YES all of the hamsters were named for a unique capability. Bolt is fast, so he can take you places on time. Twilight can tell you stories about sparkly vampires. Brownie bakes sweets. Thor is a handy man, and Ulysses is a sailor/adventurer who will fight a cyclops for you.
So now that you've decided to take any and maybe even all of our beautiful, handy hamsters, please write to me at this address:
12345 Hairball Plaza
Cage Shavings, LA 6789101112
But won't the kids miss them you ask? Maybe we should also do a roll call of the other critters in my house, since it's been a while.
1. Claire - human female, 14, listens to music and is chronically bored.
2. Emma - human female, 12, plays with all of the animals that her siblings have little to no interest in, makes art and avoids homework.
3. Christopher - gamer male, 10, plays video games, also avoids homework. His job is to eat and get taller.
So Emma and I might miss them a little, but since the animal to human ratio is beating us I think we could afford to lighten the load.
That address again is:
1000 Whiskers Blvd.
Oh My God Take Them, LA
Well, I can't put my address on the internet! Sigh. Could it be that I really do want to keep the hamsters, now that I've named them and nursed one of them back to health after he returned from an epic journey, gaunt and gasping for corn and sunflower seeds? Well. Maybe. Maybe I'd miss them a little. Besides, I am starting to learn their whisker language. And I did tape broom straws to my face that one time so I could twitch back. And Brownie is a good cook.
So...does anyone need piles of discarded fur? We've got bails of them. It would make a fetching sweater for your dog.
Friday, November 2, 2012
The Skaterboys and Momma Lame
Last week Christopher got a skateboard, and his mom ruined it by making him wear a helmet. What an insensitive bitch....oh wait, it was me. WELL! Look, I grew that kid, I saw to it that he had an intact, functional head and I would like to see it remain unspoiled until it comes such I time that I must let go and watch him do something brain-damaging like join the army or play football or get into World of Warcraft. But until that day, if he's going to attach himself to a board with wheels then he's going to wear a helmert.
Yeah, you might say, but then you took him to the skate park...What's wrong with the skate park? NOBODY wears a helmet, knee pads or elbow pads at the skatepark. When you went the other day you, Claire, Emma, and Christopher stood at the edge of the cement and watched 7 teenage boys rolling up and down ramps, leaping over picnic tables and ollying over things, and (you noticed) with no protective gear. In some cases not even socks. It was mortifying.
Claire, mortified for different reasons, took one look at them, pointed to a tree in the park across the street and said, "I'm going to go read over there."
"Mom," Emma whined. She was wearing her rollerblades and, reluctantly, her helmet, elbow and kneepads. "Nobody else is wearing this."
"Well, they're supposed to," I told her and pointed to the sign on the wall behind us. "It's in the rules."
"MOM," Emma stressed in a "I can't believe you just pointed to the rules sign" sort of way.
"Em, go skate."
"But they're gonna think we're weird," said Christopher.
"Guys, I'll bet you they're not thinking of anyhting but their own stuff. Seriously, they're skater boys, they're not football players. Skater boys ARE weird."
"They are?" Christopher said.
"Honey, that kid is wearing a tubesock on his head."
It wasn't really a tubesock. But it was dirty white and so thin that it stuck up at the top like the tip of a skinny balloon that doesn't inflate all the way. "This park is for everyone, not just them. Go ahead, you'll be fine."
Timidly they rolled away from me under the awning and toward the cement slab where there were ramps, tables, steps that led nowhere, and a long gray metal pole that was low to the ground. Nobody used it, but I imagined it was there to give someone a head injury.
At first my kids just skated in circles around me. The older boys made them nervous, and honestly, I would have reacted the same way as Claire at her age, and just left. I wasn't a skater though, and neither is she. Emma and Christopher are. We don't have sidewalks in our neighborhood, and I'm not comfortable with them on the street, especially since Christopher is just learning. A skate park, by definition, seemed to be a good place for them to go.
The boys did leave them alone. In fact, they barely looked at them, but the threw nervous glances at me. Maybe they noticed that I pointed to the sign, and thought, "Shit! She's going to make us obey the sign!" Or maybe they thought, "Shit! Now I can't talk about my nuts." But they were wrong. I'm probably the last person in the world who would be offended by anyone talking about their his nuts - within reason. Talking about them in relation to me - no. Talking about them in general - yeah, that's fine, I don't care. I talk about my nuts in general and I don't even have any. Swearing and crude talk is fine as long as the talker isn't being a jerk. They must have gotten a feel for this because eventually when it became clear that I was not going to call their mothers for saying "Damn, I squashed my nuts!" they stopped looking at me funny and went back to skating and swearing. I didn't care, I wasn't their mother.
I was more focused on not running up to help my kids when they fell, which was a big deal for me. Christopher is going to have to squash his nuts if he's going to learn anything and I'm going to have to deal with that. After a while, when it appeared that the Skater Boys were not going to hang them from ramps by their wedgies, Christopher and Emma began skating all around the park, and even went up a few of the ramps. When they slipped and fell, I laughed. They weren't bad falls, and they were funny. You don't know how funny your kid looks until they roll up a ramp, panic, try to turn around, come to a complete stop, and then fall over.
When it was time to go, and Claire rejoined us she said, "How'd it go?"
Emma said, "We fell and Mom laughed at us."
"You were funny!" I said, and did an impression of of Emma flopping over.
Claire laughed until she remembered to be embarrassed by my behavior and abruptly stopped.
"So Mom," said Christopher, unbuckling his helmet. "Next time we come here, can we not wear this stuff?"
"No, you are wearing the gear. You are wearing the gear for the rest of your life."
"Mooom!" Emma and Christopher whined.
"It's true. Accept it."
They're still fighting me on it. But they're also still falling, so their arguments don't carry much weight. They never will, because even professionals who practice all the time still fall. They will still wear helmets and I will still laugh at them. That's the deal.
Yeah, you might say, but then you took him to the skate park...What's wrong with the skate park? NOBODY wears a helmet, knee pads or elbow pads at the skatepark. When you went the other day you, Claire, Emma, and Christopher stood at the edge of the cement and watched 7 teenage boys rolling up and down ramps, leaping over picnic tables and ollying over things, and (you noticed) with no protective gear. In some cases not even socks. It was mortifying.
Claire, mortified for different reasons, took one look at them, pointed to a tree in the park across the street and said, "I'm going to go read over there."
"Mom," Emma whined. She was wearing her rollerblades and, reluctantly, her helmet, elbow and kneepads. "Nobody else is wearing this."
"Well, they're supposed to," I told her and pointed to the sign on the wall behind us. "It's in the rules."
"MOM," Emma stressed in a "I can't believe you just pointed to the rules sign" sort of way.
"Em, go skate."
"But they're gonna think we're weird," said Christopher.
"Guys, I'll bet you they're not thinking of anyhting but their own stuff. Seriously, they're skater boys, they're not football players. Skater boys ARE weird."
"They are?" Christopher said.
"Honey, that kid is wearing a tubesock on his head."
It wasn't really a tubesock. But it was dirty white and so thin that it stuck up at the top like the tip of a skinny balloon that doesn't inflate all the way. "This park is for everyone, not just them. Go ahead, you'll be fine."
Timidly they rolled away from me under the awning and toward the cement slab where there were ramps, tables, steps that led nowhere, and a long gray metal pole that was low to the ground. Nobody used it, but I imagined it was there to give someone a head injury.
At first my kids just skated in circles around me. The older boys made them nervous, and honestly, I would have reacted the same way as Claire at her age, and just left. I wasn't a skater though, and neither is she. Emma and Christopher are. We don't have sidewalks in our neighborhood, and I'm not comfortable with them on the street, especially since Christopher is just learning. A skate park, by definition, seemed to be a good place for them to go.
The boys did leave them alone. In fact, they barely looked at them, but the threw nervous glances at me. Maybe they noticed that I pointed to the sign, and thought, "Shit! She's going to make us obey the sign!" Or maybe they thought, "Shit! Now I can't talk about my nuts." But they were wrong. I'm probably the last person in the world who would be offended by anyone talking about their his nuts - within reason. Talking about them in relation to me - no. Talking about them in general - yeah, that's fine, I don't care. I talk about my nuts in general and I don't even have any. Swearing and crude talk is fine as long as the talker isn't being a jerk. They must have gotten a feel for this because eventually when it became clear that I was not going to call their mothers for saying "Damn, I squashed my nuts!" they stopped looking at me funny and went back to skating and swearing. I didn't care, I wasn't their mother.
I was more focused on not running up to help my kids when they fell, which was a big deal for me. Christopher is going to have to squash his nuts if he's going to learn anything and I'm going to have to deal with that. After a while, when it appeared that the Skater Boys were not going to hang them from ramps by their wedgies, Christopher and Emma began skating all around the park, and even went up a few of the ramps. When they slipped and fell, I laughed. They weren't bad falls, and they were funny. You don't know how funny your kid looks until they roll up a ramp, panic, try to turn around, come to a complete stop, and then fall over.
When it was time to go, and Claire rejoined us she said, "How'd it go?"
Emma said, "We fell and Mom laughed at us."
"You were funny!" I said, and did an impression of of Emma flopping over.
Claire laughed until she remembered to be embarrassed by my behavior and abruptly stopped.
"So Mom," said Christopher, unbuckling his helmet. "Next time we come here, can we not wear this stuff?"
"No, you are wearing the gear. You are wearing the gear for the rest of your life."
"Mooom!" Emma and Christopher whined.
"It's true. Accept it."
They're still fighting me on it. But they're also still falling, so their arguments don't carry much weight. They never will, because even professionals who practice all the time still fall. They will still wear helmets and I will still laugh at them. That's the deal.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Bacchus and Christopher
A few nights ago, Chrsitopher's friend Bacchus slept over. His real name is something Biblical, so I decided to change it to something pagan for good measure. He and Christopher both go to the same school, which is a Christian school that, in the interest of privacy, I will call St. Zeus's Academy for Future Gods and Goddesses. Bacchus is a small, skinny kid with black-framed glasses, and I swear I will marry this boy off to one of my daughters if I have any say in the matter. Not only is he incredibly smart and makes good grades, which I attribute to the power of his glasses, but when I picked up he and Christopher in aftercare, we had the following conversation:
"Hey, Bacchus," I said, strolling into the gym, which is where they keep the Future Gods and Goddesses of aftercare. "You ready to come to our house? Do you have all your stuff?"
"Yes. And I have the one thing that every sleep over needs..." he knelt in front of his school bag and reached inside. "Duct tape!" he said, brandishing the silver roll.
"Uh...what are we going to use that for?"
"I don't know. Just in case something comes up."
This enthralled me. What could come up that was duct tape worthy? A flat tire? A broken Wii remote? Thirst? I spent most of that evening asking Bacchus if we needed the duct tape.
"Bacchus, I'm parking the car. Do we need the duct tape?"
"No, Miss Genevieve."
"Hey Bacchus, I'm out of butter for the pancakes. Do we need duct tape?"
"No, Miss Genevieve. That would be gross."
"I suppose. What if I broke a plate? Could we use it then?"
"Yeah, I think so. Is there a broken plate?"
"No. Not yet. You're being too careful with it, look, it won't break that way. Don't set your plate on the table. Set it on the dog."
"I don't think she'd like that."
"Ooooh! Fine. Keep your duct tape, I don't need to see it in action."
"Christopher," he said to my son, who has had nine years to get used to me. "Is your mom always like this?"
"Yes," Christopher said.
"Ok. I like it," said Bacchus, pushing his glasses back.
That's how this kid talks. Monotone, even when he's excited, and especally when he's serious. Which is a lot.
Take for instance, our conversation about slang. He and I have a similar distaste for the term "brain fart."
"My nanny says it when she forgets something. She says 'uh oh, brain fart,' and she thinks it's funny. But I prefer to say 'I forgot' because it's not disgusting."
"Me too," I said. "And everyone says it. Even smart people who you wouldn't imagine saying such a crass word."
"Yeah! It's true! Everyone says it! Why do they do that?"
I said that I didn't know and we shook our heads at a world of brain gas that we didn't understand.
Sometimes Claire uses that term and she probably would have defended it if she'd been in the car, but the girls were at a freind's house for a sleep over, so it was just me and the boys.
"We're going to stop at Subway for dinner, guys," I told them. Then I remembered that I didn't know what this kid liked. The nanny had told me that he was allergic to shrimp, which left everything else open. But still, kids can be weird about food. Maybe just the thought of sandwiches made him wet his pants. "Bacchus, you ok with that?"
"Yeah, that's good."
"I just want a six-inch sandwich this time, Mom," said Christopher, who'd been knocking out foot longs lately. "I want to watch my portions."
"Are you on a diet?" Bacchus asked. "They say kids shouldn't diet, it's bad for them."
"No, I'm not on a diet. I just...well...when I get older and I have a girlfriend, when I go to the beach and I take off my shirt I want to show her that I have muscles."
"Dude," Bacchus said, leveling with him. "Girls don't care about a guy's molecular structure."
"Um...do you mean a muscular structure, Bacchus?"
"Oh, yes," he said.
"Because a girl's got to have some standards and most of them like molecules in a man."
"Of course."
During this conversation Christopher had begun convulsing with laughter, and then I felt bad about interrupting. Here were two nine year old boys having a serious conversation about looks, girls, and diets, and I'd interrupted to correct one of them. I should have been filming it.
Bacchus looked over at Christopher who was hanging loosely in his seat belt with his hands over his eyes. "Molecular structure!" he giggled.
"He's not going to stop is he?" assked Bacchus.
"No," I said. "Maybe now's a good time for duct tape."
Bacchus smiled. "Maybe so."
Then the two of them played computer games and talked until they fell asleep. I brought Bacchus home the next day and met with the nanny. He lives with his father, who's a surgeon and who is seldom home. But the nanny I've met a few times and I let her know that I think Bacchus is a great kid, and he's welcome over any time. Even if he didn't use the duct tape.
"Hey, Bacchus," I said, strolling into the gym, which is where they keep the Future Gods and Goddesses of aftercare. "You ready to come to our house? Do you have all your stuff?"
"Yes. And I have the one thing that every sleep over needs..." he knelt in front of his school bag and reached inside. "Duct tape!" he said, brandishing the silver roll.
"Uh...what are we going to use that for?"
"I don't know. Just in case something comes up."
This enthralled me. What could come up that was duct tape worthy? A flat tire? A broken Wii remote? Thirst? I spent most of that evening asking Bacchus if we needed the duct tape.
"Bacchus, I'm parking the car. Do we need the duct tape?"
"No, Miss Genevieve."
"Hey Bacchus, I'm out of butter for the pancakes. Do we need duct tape?"
"No, Miss Genevieve. That would be gross."
"I suppose. What if I broke a plate? Could we use it then?"
"Yeah, I think so. Is there a broken plate?"
"No. Not yet. You're being too careful with it, look, it won't break that way. Don't set your plate on the table. Set it on the dog."
"I don't think she'd like that."
"Ooooh! Fine. Keep your duct tape, I don't need to see it in action."
"Christopher," he said to my son, who has had nine years to get used to me. "Is your mom always like this?"
"Yes," Christopher said.
"Ok. I like it," said Bacchus, pushing his glasses back.
That's how this kid talks. Monotone, even when he's excited, and especally when he's serious. Which is a lot.
Take for instance, our conversation about slang. He and I have a similar distaste for the term "brain fart."
"My nanny says it when she forgets something. She says 'uh oh, brain fart,' and she thinks it's funny. But I prefer to say 'I forgot' because it's not disgusting."
"Me too," I said. "And everyone says it. Even smart people who you wouldn't imagine saying such a crass word."
"Yeah! It's true! Everyone says it! Why do they do that?"
I said that I didn't know and we shook our heads at a world of brain gas that we didn't understand.
Sometimes Claire uses that term and she probably would have defended it if she'd been in the car, but the girls were at a freind's house for a sleep over, so it was just me and the boys.
"We're going to stop at Subway for dinner, guys," I told them. Then I remembered that I didn't know what this kid liked. The nanny had told me that he was allergic to shrimp, which left everything else open. But still, kids can be weird about food. Maybe just the thought of sandwiches made him wet his pants. "Bacchus, you ok with that?"
"Yeah, that's good."
"I just want a six-inch sandwich this time, Mom," said Christopher, who'd been knocking out foot longs lately. "I want to watch my portions."
"Are you on a diet?" Bacchus asked. "They say kids shouldn't diet, it's bad for them."
"No, I'm not on a diet. I just...well...when I get older and I have a girlfriend, when I go to the beach and I take off my shirt I want to show her that I have muscles."
"Dude," Bacchus said, leveling with him. "Girls don't care about a guy's molecular structure."
"Um...do you mean a muscular structure, Bacchus?"
"Oh, yes," he said.
"Because a girl's got to have some standards and most of them like molecules in a man."
"Of course."
During this conversation Christopher had begun convulsing with laughter, and then I felt bad about interrupting. Here were two nine year old boys having a serious conversation about looks, girls, and diets, and I'd interrupted to correct one of them. I should have been filming it.
Bacchus looked over at Christopher who was hanging loosely in his seat belt with his hands over his eyes. "Molecular structure!" he giggled.
"He's not going to stop is he?" assked Bacchus.
"No," I said. "Maybe now's a good time for duct tape."
Bacchus smiled. "Maybe so."
Then the two of them played computer games and talked until they fell asleep. I brought Bacchus home the next day and met with the nanny. He lives with his father, who's a surgeon and who is seldom home. But the nanny I've met a few times and I let her know that I think Bacchus is a great kid, and he's welcome over any time. Even if he didn't use the duct tape.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Roller Derby and Love's Mixed Messages
Tonight me and the kids and I went to Roller Derby. In case you don't know what that is, it looks like this:
Actually, that looks very polite. Imagine those three women shoving each other with some "bam!" and "pow!" signs around them, like in Batman fight scenes, and that's closer to what it's like.
This goes against the skating etiquette that I have taught my kids, where you DON'T shove into people and make them fall over. But in a ring with loud music, whistles blowing, and women in fishnet stockings, it's ok. This is just one small example of the mixed messages of my parenting.
Take, for instance, our conversation about love and marriage earlier today. We were driving passed the church where a bride and groom were walking briskly out of the fromt door towards the white Royals Royce that was waiting for them.
I said, "Awe, look guys, it's a wedding!"
They looked at where I was pointing and made impressed noises.
"Congratulations!" I yelled, as if they could hear me.
"Congratulations! Good luck!" the kids yelled, and we all waved.
"Mom," Emma asked me a minute later. "Were you happy on your wedding day?"
Ah. They like to do this, ask me questions about my wedding day and marriage to their father. The best I can do is answer them honestly, which I did.
"Yeah, I was," I told her. "And we were married in that church."
"The one we just passed?" Claire asked.
"Yep."
"And you really were happy?" she asked.
"Yes. I really, really was. It was a great day."
In the silence that followed there was another question floating around that I'm glad they didn't ask. "If you were so happy, why didn't it last?"
"I wanna get married," Emma sighed. "And I want my husband to have freckles."
"That would be cute," I said.
"On his face," Emma added.
"Well, yes," I said.
"And he'll have red hair and he'll wear glasses."
"Do you have someone in particular in mind? That's specific."
She ignored my observation and continued, "And we'll see each other for six months and then he'll ask me to marry him."
"Hold up," I said. "You should date him for atleast a year."
"But YOU got engaged in less time than that," Claire said.
"Uh....yeah. And...."
"And Grandma and Grandpa got engaged after just a few weeks."
"Uhhhhh...........yeah."
"They're still together."
"Yes, well, even they would tell you that it's best to get to know someone first."
Sometimes I find myself tripping over my own relationship advice because most of my relationships have been like this:
But I know that they say it's best to take things slow and I've never done that. Four of my closest friends who have been married to the same people for over ten years also dated those same people for atleast three years before that. So that's the advice I gave the kids.
But then I thought about something else. A cousin of mine dated the same guy for ten years, then married him and they got divorced after two years. Then someone I know who was in a 29 year marriage which had started off sensibly, they had dated for a couple of years, got jobs, bought a house, had a kid and STILL got divorced. On the other hand, a friend of mine had a one night stand with a guy and she's been in a monogamous relationship with him for over twenty years. Another dude I know had an affair with a married woman. That was 14 years ago. They've been together the whole time and now they're married. Then I remembered another affair that turned out that way, one which EVERYONE was sure would never last because of how they'd started off.
"You know what," I said told the kids after thinking about all of this. "You just never know. I still think it's a good idea to get to know somebody for at least a year but I'd be lying if I told you that I know any secrets about all of this stuff. Just pick somebody who's good to you, and be good to them too. That's all I got. Let's go to Derby."
And we did. And it was like this:
Roller Derby is as risky as love, but there are nachos and men dressed as Elvis who throw candy into the stands. Who knows maybe that's the secret to happy relationships that no one has shared with me - nachos and Elvis. Those uppity bastards and their secrets about love.
Actually, that looks very polite. Imagine those three women shoving each other with some "bam!" and "pow!" signs around them, like in Batman fight scenes, and that's closer to what it's like.
This goes against the skating etiquette that I have taught my kids, where you DON'T shove into people and make them fall over. But in a ring with loud music, whistles blowing, and women in fishnet stockings, it's ok. This is just one small example of the mixed messages of my parenting.
Take, for instance, our conversation about love and marriage earlier today. We were driving passed the church where a bride and groom were walking briskly out of the fromt door towards the white Royals Royce that was waiting for them.
I said, "Awe, look guys, it's a wedding!"
They looked at where I was pointing and made impressed noises.
"Congratulations!" I yelled, as if they could hear me.
"Congratulations! Good luck!" the kids yelled, and we all waved.
"Mom," Emma asked me a minute later. "Were you happy on your wedding day?"
Ah. They like to do this, ask me questions about my wedding day and marriage to their father. The best I can do is answer them honestly, which I did.
"Yeah, I was," I told her. "And we were married in that church."
"The one we just passed?" Claire asked.
"Yep."
"And you really were happy?" she asked.
"Yes. I really, really was. It was a great day."
In the silence that followed there was another question floating around that I'm glad they didn't ask. "If you were so happy, why didn't it last?"
"I wanna get married," Emma sighed. "And I want my husband to have freckles."
"That would be cute," I said.
"On his face," Emma added.
"Well, yes," I said.
"And he'll have red hair and he'll wear glasses."
"Do you have someone in particular in mind? That's specific."
She ignored my observation and continued, "And we'll see each other for six months and then he'll ask me to marry him."
"Hold up," I said. "You should date him for atleast a year."
"But YOU got engaged in less time than that," Claire said.
"Uh....yeah. And...."
"And Grandma and Grandpa got engaged after just a few weeks."
"Uhhhhh...........yeah."
"They're still together."
"Yes, well, even they would tell you that it's best to get to know someone first."
Sometimes I find myself tripping over my own relationship advice because most of my relationships have been like this:
But I know that they say it's best to take things slow and I've never done that. Four of my closest friends who have been married to the same people for over ten years also dated those same people for atleast three years before that. So that's the advice I gave the kids.
But then I thought about something else. A cousin of mine dated the same guy for ten years, then married him and they got divorced after two years. Then someone I know who was in a 29 year marriage which had started off sensibly, they had dated for a couple of years, got jobs, bought a house, had a kid and STILL got divorced. On the other hand, a friend of mine had a one night stand with a guy and she's been in a monogamous relationship with him for over twenty years. Another dude I know had an affair with a married woman. That was 14 years ago. They've been together the whole time and now they're married. Then I remembered another affair that turned out that way, one which EVERYONE was sure would never last because of how they'd started off.
"You know what," I said told the kids after thinking about all of this. "You just never know. I still think it's a good idea to get to know somebody for at least a year but I'd be lying if I told you that I know any secrets about all of this stuff. Just pick somebody who's good to you, and be good to them too. That's all I got. Let's go to Derby."
And we did. And it was like this:
Roller Derby is as risky as love, but there are nachos and men dressed as Elvis who throw candy into the stands. Who knows maybe that's the secret to happy relationships that no one has shared with me - nachos and Elvis. Those uppity bastards and their secrets about love.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
The Third Yell is the Breaking Point
I got up at 4:00...and so did all three children. I don't understand how this happens so I won't speculate, but it really throws off my writing groove. So I'll write what I can during the serious, nerve-busting, frantic time crunch that exists between the hours of When The Kids Wake Up - 6:15. Because of the commute, that's what time we have to leave to get to work and school on time.
The morning began with a cry from a kid in the shower, "MOOOOOOOOOOOM! There's no water pressure! Did somebody flush??"
"No," I muttered, staggering out of my bedroom.
But I didn't mutter loud enough. She two seconds later, "MOOOOOOOOOOO@#@#@%#@$%^??!!!OOOOMMMMMMM!!! THIS IS TERRIBLE! THERE'S NO WATER PRESSURE!"
"I know, honey. I know it's a pain." I say outside the bathroom door. Still didn't hear me.
"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!!"
I slap the door. "I HEAR YOU! DEAL WITH IT!"
"BUT MOM!"
'BUT WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT IT? I'M NOT A PLUMBER! SUCK IT UP!"
See how things turn around like that? I'm a rational, sympathetic person until the third yell. That seems to be my breaking point. The whole last part of that conversation is how I would imagine my landlord and I would speak to each other if she answered her phone.
We hate this house. The water pressure is moody, the dishwasher broke and the landlord won't respond to my phone calls or texts about it, and some of the light fixtures work and some of them don't, as if the house has had a stroke. We can not wait until our lease is up. Every time I take a shower and the shower head dribbles a tiny stream of water as if it's weeping over it's patheticness on top of my head, I begin to plot my escape. I imagine a large U-Haul truck pulling into the driveway with the same fantastical pleasure as if it was a stretch limousine with a bouquet of flowers waiting for me on the backseat. Ahhh...moving. It'll be nice when I'm my own landlord again, but honestly I can put up with having a lousy landlord again if it means that I don't have to commute for over two hours a day anymore.
It is now 5:45 and I need to go stand under the shower head so that it can drool like a mental patient onto my hair.
The morning began with a cry from a kid in the shower, "MOOOOOOOOOOOM! There's no water pressure! Did somebody flush??"
"No," I muttered, staggering out of my bedroom.
But I didn't mutter loud enough. She two seconds later, "MOOOOOOOOOOO@#@#@%#@$%^??!!!OOOOMMMMMMM!!! THIS IS TERRIBLE! THERE'S NO WATER PRESSURE!"
"I know, honey. I know it's a pain." I say outside the bathroom door. Still didn't hear me.
"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!!"
I slap the door. "I HEAR YOU! DEAL WITH IT!"
"BUT MOM!"
'BUT WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT IT? I'M NOT A PLUMBER! SUCK IT UP!"
See how things turn around like that? I'm a rational, sympathetic person until the third yell. That seems to be my breaking point. The whole last part of that conversation is how I would imagine my landlord and I would speak to each other if she answered her phone.
We hate this house. The water pressure is moody, the dishwasher broke and the landlord won't respond to my phone calls or texts about it, and some of the light fixtures work and some of them don't, as if the house has had a stroke. We can not wait until our lease is up. Every time I take a shower and the shower head dribbles a tiny stream of water as if it's weeping over it's patheticness on top of my head, I begin to plot my escape. I imagine a large U-Haul truck pulling into the driveway with the same fantastical pleasure as if it was a stretch limousine with a bouquet of flowers waiting for me on the backseat. Ahhh...moving. It'll be nice when I'm my own landlord again, but honestly I can put up with having a lousy landlord again if it means that I don't have to commute for over two hours a day anymore.
It is now 5:45 and I need to go stand under the shower head so that it can drool like a mental patient onto my hair.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
How to Screw Up Laundry in 13 Easy Steps
I'm not sure how you do the laundry, but this is what I do:
1) Wear an outfit that I don't like to work.
2) Change into shorts and a T-shirt when I get home and throw the work clothes on my closet floor.
3) Four hours later, take off T-shirt and shorts and throw them on top of the work clothes on the floor.
4) Repeat process for 8 days.
5) Take a snow shovel and heap the laundry from my closet into the laundry area in the pantry.
6) Throw the snow shovel on the couch and get a forklift to gather the dirty clothes out of the kids' rooms.
7) Do 126 loads of laundry.
8) Pile clean clothes on the couch, and in the process bury the snow shovel, the remote control, my cell phone, car keys, the dog, my son's homework, and an unfinished burrito.
9) Complain that I can't find anything.
10) Begin to sit on the clean clothes pile because I haven't been able to bribe the kids into picking them up and putting them where they belong.
11) Begin picking through the pile whenever I need a clean outfit, most of which has ended up on the floor.
12) Repeat until the pile is gone.
13) Return to step one.
I am possibly the only person in southern Louisiana with a snow shovel and that's because everyone else can get away with a laundry basket, but I need a heavy tool with a wide scoop at the end. And really, I'm not sure where all of these clothes are coming from. I know what we wear! I see us every day! But tonight I came across an Emma-sized purple shirt that I'd never seen before.
"Emma," I said, "is this yours?"
"Oh yeah." She smiled, took it and dropped it to the floor. Before I could tell her to pick it up the rabbit hopped to it, grabbed it with her teeth and scurried off to make a nest. On the couch.
But where had it come from? Emma couldn't remember. How does this happen?
I know that when I was a teenager, the opposite was happening - I was constantly losing clothes and didn't know why until I found out that my middle sisters' friends were stealing my coolest band T-shirts. I couldn't blame them, but I was still pissed.
"Julie," I said, confronting one of them. "Where's my Soundgarden t-shirt?"
"Oh God that was months ago. I wore it home and then Jessica borrowed it, I think. Sorry."
"Who's Jessica?"
"I don't remember."
I don't know where these girls are now, but I hope that rabbits are making nests out of their pajamas.
Anyway, this morning, as the children and I picked through the clothes we needed off of the piles of clothes throughout the house, I made a declaration.
"Tonight!" I said. "We'repicking all of this up. No TV! No computer until it's done! Does everybody understand?"
It was 6:00 in the morning and they all made the same reply that went something like "Beeeehhlhhhhhaaaahhhhh...." like zombies pillaging a laundromat in slow motion.
And tonight when we got home, I stuck to that. I changed out of my work clothes, WHICH I PUT IN THE WASHING MACHINE (thank you, thank you, I know, you're too kind to acknowledge my accomplishment), I cooked dinner, and after the kids finished their homework, we spent the next hour organizing the clothes into piles and then putting them away.
I don't know if we'll stick to this. Not cleaning for weeks and then sudden bursts of cleaning are more my speed than a consistent load of laundry which we all pick up for five minutes a day. I'm going to try, but I'm holding on to my snow shovel just in case. It's made a comfortable groove in the couch and I don't think I could get rid of it if I wanted to.
1) Wear an outfit that I don't like to work.
2) Change into shorts and a T-shirt when I get home and throw the work clothes on my closet floor.
3) Four hours later, take off T-shirt and shorts and throw them on top of the work clothes on the floor.
4) Repeat process for 8 days.
5) Take a snow shovel and heap the laundry from my closet into the laundry area in the pantry.
6) Throw the snow shovel on the couch and get a forklift to gather the dirty clothes out of the kids' rooms.
7) Do 126 loads of laundry.
8) Pile clean clothes on the couch, and in the process bury the snow shovel, the remote control, my cell phone, car keys, the dog, my son's homework, and an unfinished burrito.
9) Complain that I can't find anything.
10) Begin to sit on the clean clothes pile because I haven't been able to bribe the kids into picking them up and putting them where they belong.
11) Begin picking through the pile whenever I need a clean outfit, most of which has ended up on the floor.
12) Repeat until the pile is gone.
13) Return to step one.
I am possibly the only person in southern Louisiana with a snow shovel and that's because everyone else can get away with a laundry basket, but I need a heavy tool with a wide scoop at the end. And really, I'm not sure where all of these clothes are coming from. I know what we wear! I see us every day! But tonight I came across an Emma-sized purple shirt that I'd never seen before.
"Emma," I said, "is this yours?"
"Oh yeah." She smiled, took it and dropped it to the floor. Before I could tell her to pick it up the rabbit hopped to it, grabbed it with her teeth and scurried off to make a nest. On the couch.
But where had it come from? Emma couldn't remember. How does this happen?
I know that when I was a teenager, the opposite was happening - I was constantly losing clothes and didn't know why until I found out that my middle sisters' friends were stealing my coolest band T-shirts. I couldn't blame them, but I was still pissed.
"Julie," I said, confronting one of them. "Where's my Soundgarden t-shirt?"
"Oh God that was months ago. I wore it home and then Jessica borrowed it, I think. Sorry."
"Who's Jessica?"
"I don't remember."
I don't know where these girls are now, but I hope that rabbits are making nests out of their pajamas.
Anyway, this morning, as the children and I picked through the clothes we needed off of the piles of clothes throughout the house, I made a declaration.
"Tonight!" I said. "We'repicking all of this up. No TV! No computer until it's done! Does everybody understand?"
It was 6:00 in the morning and they all made the same reply that went something like "Beeeehhlhhhhhaaaahhhhh...." like zombies pillaging a laundromat in slow motion.
And tonight when we got home, I stuck to that. I changed out of my work clothes, WHICH I PUT IN THE WASHING MACHINE (thank you, thank you, I know, you're too kind to acknowledge my accomplishment), I cooked dinner, and after the kids finished their homework, we spent the next hour organizing the clothes into piles and then putting them away.
I don't know if we'll stick to this. Not cleaning for weeks and then sudden bursts of cleaning are more my speed than a consistent load of laundry which we all pick up for five minutes a day. I'm going to try, but I'm holding on to my snow shovel just in case. It's made a comfortable groove in the couch and I don't think I could get rid of it if I wanted to.
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